


Quinquireme of Nineveh

by Fiorenza_a



Series: Anthology [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 18:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiorenza_a/pseuds/Fiorenza_a
Summary: When had Doyle stopped caring...





	Quinquireme of Nineveh

 

The light from the paraffin lamp flickered, throwing out a cosy glow. Water lapped gently against the hull. The boat creaked and settled around him.

It wasn’t true, Doyle's assumption, that he'd been born to this, or bred to it, at one with it at any rate. The ships of his youth had been precisely that… _Dirty British coaster_... Well, not that, not quite. When he'd jumped ship, it had been from a rotten hulk flying a flag of convenience. His record said Merchant Navy - and he had tried - but they had wanted papers he didn't have, years he hadn't lived.

Not then.

Not when the dark shadow smudged across his jaw had been more thistledown than stubble. Peach fuzz, his mother had said.

The years had caught up. He was older now, than she had been then.

He drained the last of his scotch and levered himself stiffly to his feet, absently cataloguing the nagging aches of abused flesh. Being on the river wasn't helping. The cabin was warm, but the mist hugging the water had seeped into his bones. .. _Old bones_ … Doyle had said that once, he couldn't remember when or why, but the phrase had stuck. Much like the man.

Doyle was asleep, head hanging back, mouth gagging open, limbs asprawl. The bottle of scotch was on the table beside him, next to another empty glass. Bodie planted a hand on the ceiling to steady himself and leaned over his partner to grab the bottle. Doyle was in no fit state to protest, dead to the world in an unforgiving wooden chair, the price of his tenacious refusal to bunk down for the night.

Bodie artfully adjusted his centre of gravity, allowing the resultant stumble backwards to take him down into his own seat.

The cramped cabin was sparsely appointed, but a comforting space to inhabit for all that. An oiled, wooden womb adrift on the amniotic deep. Except that the woodwork was sealed with modern marine varnish and they were tethered to the river bank, moored for the night.

Bodie poured himself another drink, planting the bottle proprietarily next to his glass. Opening gambit in a solo game of one-upmanship. When had Doyle ceased caring? When had the fire been smothered by cynicism? The self-recrimination by weary resignation?

Leaning back in his chair, Bodie studied the man opposite. The riot of unruly curls had been tamed, blow-dried into submission. The wiry frame was more solid, the jeans a size bigger. The creases etched by the old, infectious laugh were visible even in repose. The scattering of grey at the temples had seeded itself and multiplied. Doyle would be forty-two next year.

Bodie remembered once admitting, half in truth, half in jest, that he thought about quitting before every physical. Now he couldn't recall that feeling between physicals, that not wanting to quit.

Why had he stayed? Was it the siren call of Queen and country? Was it because the Old Man still needed him? Or was it simply that he was broken to harness, unfit for anything else?

There'd been a time when he had known why. When his reasons rose and set with the man who no longer cared if he made old bones. When everything had distilled into one essential truth and the name of that truth was Doyle.

When had Doyle stopped caring?

When had the furious blast of Doyle's temper become soul deep winter? When had the bitter frost first o'erspilled to fill contemptuous fists? When had Doyle learned this cold despite?

Bodie sipped his drink and tried to remember the first hasty word for which Doyle hadn't apologised. The first excuse invented to avoid his company. The first time Cowley had snapped at him and Doyle's eyes slid away, leaving him hanging.                

No, there were no reasons, not any more. He should leave. Now, in the gathering twilight. Slink away, as he had all those years ago, to find his fortune in the blood and dust of another continent.

Doyle had never understood that part of him. Deep down, in the hidden places where secrets dwelt, Doyle and Cowley were alike. Both played fast and loose with the rule of law, but neither could frame a world without it. He had lived free. Making his own law and living by it. Carving his own morality without reference to their God. His law was simple, he believed in love.

Would that surprise them, the Old Man and his fading incubus? But he'd seen love. The laying down of one life for another. Charity shorn of judgement. He'd walked with saints, he was sure of it. Not incandescent, incorruptible beings, but better flesh and blood than mere mortal clay could fashion.

He thought of a gap toothed woman with sun wizened skin and a laugh filthier than Doyle's. Of a young boy with dust caked clothing and eyes, weary as the ages. Of a softly spoken priest who cheated at patience and redeemed the world simply by his presence within it.

He had learned that goodness and perfection walked divergent paths.

What would Doyle make of that? His belief in goodness? Once upon a time he would have confided in Doyle, some scotch mellowed evening by the flickering light of a television set neither of them heeded.

He missed that ease between them.

If he was honest, and apparently tonight he was being honest, it was the memory of that intimacy which held him. Somewhere along the line, he realised, the hope of its return had been extinguished. They were together tonight, but not by design.

Bodie had intended a weekend's fishing, though intended to catch no fish. He'd issued no invitations. The birds were still willing, but increasingly those his own age were married. So, he'd sought younger, less complicated game, but it shifted the balance. No longer an equal in sin, he'd become the senior partner, and soon there would have to be a reckoning, before he slipped from rake to roué.

Another arena in which Doyle's lustre had tarnished. He flirted, sometimes, perfunctorily, but Bodie hadn't seen him with a woman for nearly two years now. Maybe it was for the best. Bodie would rather have witnessed another bullet being dug from it, than helplessly stand by, watching Doyle's heart shatter the way that it had.

And so, even as the villains were being hauled into interrogation, Bodie had slung his kit into the boot of his capri. Forever his, CI5 had moved on, but nostalgia had led him to bid for his own vehicle. Doyle had watched his own being towed away, standing in the rain as it was loaded onto the transporter. Bodie had seen him through the grubby nets and rivulets of condensation obscuring the windows of their latest, and most dismal, HQ.

Doyle had turned unseeing eyes in his direction, the rain reworking his carefully subdued locks until they hung as they once had, framing his stricken features in an untamed tangle. Then he'd turned again and walked away and Bodie had returned to his report. No longer did they turn to each other for comfort.

But Doyle still retained the capacity to astound. Today, when Bodie had slammed the boot shut, he'd found Doyle sitting in the passenger seat. Like the ghost of Christmas past.

Doyle hadn't said a word as Bodie climbed behind the wheel. Said nothing as they journeyed past landmarks meaningless to anyone but themselves, conjuring memories which only they shared. Remained unspeaking as Bodie pulled into the pub car park and bought a couple of pints, just to be friendly, whilst the landlord sorted out the keys for the boat and took Bodie's money.

Once on the river, Doyle had proven a spectral crewmate and drinking partner, but while not exactly companionable, the silence hadn't been oppressive.

This latest operation had inflicted more punishment than had been Bodie's due. Doyle's too, come to that. Though it was hard to tell these days. Doyle seemingly walked in a perpetual fog of weariness, as if life exhausted him.

Finally, inevitably, Doyle had passed out.

Now, with instantly liberating clarity, buoyed on the backwaters of nowhere, Bodie discovered that the decision was already made.

Hauling himself upright, Bodie fumbled in his pocket for the cabin keys, leaning over Doyle once more to place them on the table beside him. Doyle wouldn't need a note. The lines of communication between them might have been severed, but Doyle would still understand. Cowley, whether he understood it or not, would accept it, docking his pay and drinking to his good health.

Suddenly, as the long shadows and rising mists gave way to an inky darkness spangled with stars, he was free. Almost giddy with it. He lurched the few paces to the cabin entryway, hauling back the top hatch and releasing the doors.

He paused, inhaling the damp keenness of fresh air.

Then, knowing without turning, he allowed the waiting invitation to escape his lips.

''Coming?''

 

END

 

  
  


From _[Cargoes](https://allpoetry.com/Cargoes)_  
__by _[John Masefield](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Masefield)_

_Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,_  
_Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,_  
_With a cargo of ivory,_  
_And apes and peacocks,_  
_Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine._


End file.
